


The Audrey to Your James . . . the James to Your Audrey

by beetle



Series: If You Were a Movie, This Would Be Your Soundtrack [1]
Category: POKÉMON Detective Pikachu (2019)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Awkward Crush, Awkward Romance, Awkward middle-aged men admitting to and acting on awkward middle-aged feelings, Banter, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, F/M, Falling In Love, Feelings, Fluff, Harry Goodman is in denial, Humor, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, Light Smut, Love Confessions, Lucy's not hacking into anywhere, M/M, Mind your business, Much Love Jack, Past Harry Goodman/Tim Goodman's Mother, Pikachu is too damn old for this shit, Post-Film, Roger Clifford is bad at grand gestures, So there JACK, Vague Spoilers, Water-Type IS Tim Goodman's Type
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 16:26:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19177033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: It doesn’t take a detective of Harry B. Goodman’s superior caliber to sleuth-out three things about Roger Clifford:1. He’s a notoriously overstressed control-freak, who probably leaves arterial-spray on the ceiling every time he gets a papercut2. He’s a deep-in-the-closet romantic who expresses himself in big, showy (dumb) gestures and declarations, or not at all3. He’s probably thebestdumb decision Detective Harry B. Goodman’s ever madeAlso: Tim Goodmaniscompatible with a water-type, Lucy Stevens is busy hacking . . . er, nothing. Don’t worry about it. And Pikachu’s a bro who knows when to make an exit. Prompt in end notes.





	The Audrey to Your James . . . the James to Your Audrey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MosaicCreme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MosaicCreme/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Hard R mostly for some sexy-talk and descriptions. Several _Deadpool_ -related Easter Eggs. Classic fade-to-black. Concrit MUCH appreciated. I love this fandom <3

“What,” Harry B. Goodman muses—more bewildered than alarmed—when the key to his apartment not only doesn’t unlock the door, but doesn’t even fit in the keyhole, “in all of Ryme City’s five wards and nine districts is all this about?”

 

It’s not even quarter after ten on this drizzling, late-April evening. Harry’s just left the _Hi-Hat_ , having finished his last half-caf of the day. He’d waved his usual tired goodbyes to Nando—the _Hat’s_ ever-squirrely manager—and the man’s pokémon partner: a brash, big-hearted doll of a ludicolo, who makes a _mean_ mug of bean.

 

One damp meander up the street later—and a few flights of stairs to get to his apartment door—and Harry finds himself punitively blocked from the one thing that’s been on his mind most of the day and most of the time, lately.

 

Well . . . one of _two_ things.

 

Home. Specifically, _bed_. That’d been all—or most . . . okay, a relatively large part of Harry’s plans for the rest of the evening. The other part being a marathon stroke-fest with his left hand—his _off_ -hand—while pretending said off-hand was a certain CEO/philanthropist’s hand.

 

Or his mouth.

 

Harry’d happily take that smirking, sarcastic mouth _anywhere_ on him, not just applying teasing, tortuous suction to his dick and balls. Even _just_ making out, with some lazy over-the-clothes action is pretty damned sweet when one’s partner has the focus and determination—the wonderfully large repertoire of filthy-nasty tricks—that Harry’s . . . non-boyfriend-type-person is always eager to display. . . .

 

“ _Pika_ -pika?” Pikachu ventures, recalling Harry to the moment with pointed encouragement and optimism. But the pokémon shrugs apologetically up at his partner when said partner glances down at him for ideas or answers.

 

It seems they’re both drawing what the ancient, Greek philosophers called . . . The Big Bagel. At least when it comes to reasons why the locks are changed.

 

Despite his years as a cop and then as a private eye, Harry’s first instinct isn’t to power-kick down his own door—not only because of losing his security deposit, but because of hearing from his elderly landlady, Ms. Matsuda, about the noise—or even to knock on the door of the aforementioned landlady so she can call the cops.

 

His first instinct is to sigh and immediately dig his phone out of his jacket pocket. The tiny-screened, utilitarian thing is hiding behind a half-roll of Mint-OHs, a wadded up paper towel from . . . who knows?, and three sloppily torn-out articles filched from Lieutenant Yoshida’s newspaper during their lunch appointment earlier.

 

“Ohhhh . . . _pika_. . . .” Pikachu says, nodding his understanding and agreement that Harry has, once again, chosen the best path of action. Of course. Pikachu and Harry _both_ know that, even after less than twelve months of cohabitation, Tim knows more about the apartment and its upkeep than Harry ever had.

 

(Also, Tim knows how to pick a lock _way_ better than Harry ever had. Where the kid learned, Harry has yet to ask. He suspects he might not want to know, but he’s nonetheless proud that his son-slash-business partner has facets that are both useful and interesting.)

 

Once Harry’s figured out how to open the speed dial menu—again—with Pikachu’s proud, congratulatory cheers still sounding, he calls his _numero uno_.

 

“Hey, dad . . . what’s what?” Tim’s relaxed and pleased voice—once upon a time, Harry’d never thought he’d hear Tim’s voice again, ever, never mind relaxed and pleased to be talking to _him_ —asks, sounding both warm and fond. And unsurprised. _He_ , unlike Harry, has mastered the art of assigning ringtones. All of Harry’s calls, no matter who they’re from, come in as that weird-peppy song about electricity that Tim and Lucy love so much. Harry suspects sabotage.

 

“Heyya, kid—you home, now?” he asks hopefully, free hand poised to knock on his own door.

 

“Nah, over at Lucy’s. Keeping Marill and Psyduck from driving her nuts with their shenanigans, till she's done hacking into . . . um. Nothing. Nothing at all!” Tim’s bright, obvious swerve makes Harry snort and roll his eyes.

 

“Uh-huh. Hacking into nothing at all. Right. Whatever keeps her totally legal and non-worrisome computer skills sharp and up-to-date.” At Harry’s side—and at his dry delivery—Pikachu giggles and sighs affectionately. He loves Tim and Lucy at least as much as Harry does, and the feeling is entirely mutual. “Tell her I said ‘hi,’ and ‘don’t get caught.’”

 

“Yeeeeaah. Yeah. So. What’s up? Need me to run home and check on something? Did you leave the blender running, again?”

 

“No.” Harry’s _extra_ certain he hasn’t, though that’s not saying much at all. “Someone’s changed the locks, and I’m hopin’ it was you, kid, or I’m what the Japanese might call _in flagrante delicto_.”

 

There’s a long, uneasy beat.

 

“Uhhhh . . . huh. Wow. Um. Wow. Okay, I hope that’s not actually the case, if only for Japan’s sake. Also . . . the lock’s been changed?” When Harry grunts his assent, Tim huffs. “Did you piss off Ms. Matsuda, again? You know she doesn’t like it when you watch noisy movies all night?”

 

“That woman was _born_ pissed-off, and only has rare moments of relative mellow.” And, of course, never for Harry. Always for Tim and Lucy, though. And their pokémon. “But I don’t think it was her, or she’d have hung-around to gloat or . . . whatever it is that makes her smile that evil—”

 

“Hold on, a sec, dad, someone’s at Luce’s door. Be right back. _Who is it?_ ”

 

Tim’s gone for less than half a minute, total—Lucy’s apartment is only marginally larger than her coffin-style office, though with several fewer pencils—during which Harry can hear Tim’s upbeat greeting to whomever is at the door. There’s a brief exchange: businesslike but friendly from the knocker’s end, and surprised and bemused from Tim’s.

 

Frowning down at Pikachu, who’s gone both still and solemn, Harry reaches for his modified, concealed-carry sten-pistol, though he doesn’t draw it.

 

“Heyya, kid?” he calls, calm and loud. Loud enough that if Ms. Matsuda’s home, she’ll no doubt have something to say about it next time he sees her.

 

On the other end of the call, Harry hears Lucy’s creaky front door shut gently, and Lucy’s calling something from her apartment’s only other room: the kitchen.

 

_“Nah, just a, uh . . . gift, I guess? It’s from, uh . . . Roger.”_

 

Lucy’s instant reply is a brief, but startled interrogative that Harry silently seconds.

 

_“Oh, no—not personally. One of his assistants delivered it—the _non_ -scary one. Just brought us a box. A box with . . . huh. With two sets of keys inside. Oh-kay. Not the weirdest gift I’ve ever gotten, but definitely in the running. . . .”_

 

_“Marill!”_

 

_“Psyduck! Psyduck!”_

 

 _“Huh, yeah. Me, too, guys.”_ Tim sounds perplexed, but not worried. Then, he’s on the line again, chuckling. “Hey, dad? Maybe your non-boyfriend-type-person’s making another one of his unique, um . . . overtures? By the way, I _still_ think he’s basically trying to, um . . . woo you. And that you’re in denial. About . . . a _bunch_ of things. Just sayin’.”

 

Ruffled and offended by Tim’s nudging tone, Harry huffs. He also tries to deny and diminish the quick, incisive sense Tim’s making. _Tries_. “I’m really not. Ryme City’s _full_ of guys who aren’t trying to woo me. Thus, it’s pretty unlikely that _he’s_ trying to woo me. Especially by rendering me temporarily homeless. Even Business Boy wouldn’t be _that_ tone-deaf.”

 

“He wouldn’t?”

 

The sheer fact that Tim’s question isn’t rhetorical, but utterly sincere and doubtful, gives Harry pause. “Okay, you _may_ have a point, there, but—”

 

“Because the only other explanation is that he just wanted to impress you or annoy you by making you homeless, and giving your son and his fiancée your place as an engagement gift.” Beat. “Lucy and I are accepting, by the way.”

 

Another distracted interrogative sounds in the background, followed by more clamor from Marill and Psyduck.

 

 _“Dad and Roger gave us the apartment as an engagement gift!”_ Tim replies, innocent-sounding, but also half-laughing. There’s another long beat, then a clearly shouted:

 

_“Thanks, Harry!”_

 

_“Psy-DUCK!”_

 

_“Marill! Marrrrrill!”_

 

 _“Huh. You’re right, guys: Depending on the timing, I think a double wedding’d be pretty cool. Especially if Roger’s footing the whole bill. Then, we could have an open bar for the reception!_ Whaddaya think, dad?”

 

“I think I hate you all,” Harry tells Tim, who snorts and laughs. “Look, kid . . . the only thing tying His Royal Stuck-Up-Ness and I together is questionable taste in men and a . . . weird sort of . . . inexplicable, freak-show chemistry that it’s probably best to not dwell on—”

 

“Tell me about it!” Tim laughs again, then makes a weird, semi-grossed-out sound. “I’m still actively repressing the most recent half-naked, touch-y fun-time I walked-in on you two having in your office, right after we tracked down those missing RCFD squirtles.”

 

Harry turns red and tries to downplay and disregard his increasingly frequent sex-ish-capades with Ryme City-royalty. “Post-job adrenaline. Happens all the time, unfortunately. He was just _there_ —right place, wrong time—when the hormones hit—”

 

“Uh-huh. He was there because he’s there _all the time,_ now! He’s _wooing_ you. Aggressively. Weirdly. _Relentlessly_. This box-o’-keys is just the latest salvo in his campaign for your . . . heart.” Tim mostly sounds bemused again . . . not even grossed-out, anymore. “Like, a convoluted and oddly key-related salvo, which . . . conjures up unwanted images of key-parties and _you two_ , that I, uh, _really_ don’t—uh . . . hello? Dad?”

 

Harry hasn’t even bothered to hang-up. He never remembers which button does that and which powers off the phone, altogether. Eventually, Tim’ll realize that and hang-up for them both. Not for the first time, either.

 

Harry, meanwhile, has already hit the bricks with his sturdy, worn old boots. He’s pounding the pavement with purpose, and his long, denim-clad, pipe-cleaner legs carry him cross-city, to _The Cliffside_ , and the dumbest mistake he’s _ever_ made.

 

And— _dumbest-ly_ — _keeps making_.

 

Pikachu hurries after him with many sad, gusty sighs, until Harry takes the hint and helps the pokémon shoulder-up for their trek.

#

 

With Pikachu still balanced on his shoulder and barely a nod for the doorman who whisks the door open for him—a kind, elderly man with a kind, elderly wigglytuff for a partner—Harry stalks under the _Cliffside_ awning. Storms into the ironically-named skyscraper that’s _not only_ the home of his Dumbest Mistake, but home to some of the most price-y luxury apartments in the world.

 

The security team keeping an eye on the lobby—and their charizards—watches Harry prowl past with silent recognition, all fiery eyes and stoic-tough demeanor. Harry barely notices them, too, not slowing his roll or even shifting his brain’s hectic focus until the doors of the large, comfortably appointed elevator shut behind him.

 

He turns to face those doors and before he can speak, Roger’s soothing-voiced AI is spouting one of its seemingly infinite canned welcomes.

 

“Good evening and welcome back to _The Cliffside_ , Detective Goodman! Mr. Clifford has been expecting you at the penthouse. I have alerted him to your arrival and will keep you apprised of any requests or queries that might arise during our journey aloft.” Then, less than five seconds later: “Welcome, again, to the Clifford-residence at _The Cliffside_. Please remove your shoes and leave them in the small alcove to the right of this lift’s control-panel. Mr. Clifford awaits you in his office.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Harry acknowledges grimly, but does as he’s asked, if only because he can’t stand it when AIs and pokémon wibble. Once in sock-feet, he pads angrily down the dim, austere, but relatively brief front hall. On his shoulder, Pikachu is grumbling—or, as close as the peppy, spirited pokémon ever gets to that state—while staring around with exasperated confusion.

 

“I know. Roger’s got all the _feng shui_ skills of a purveyor of haunted houses,” Harry says, while suspiciously eyeing some tall, lone bit of abstract sculpture that looks like a nightmare he once had. Pikachu’s quiet: _Pika . . . oooh_ , is in fervent, total agreement with that assessment of Roger’s taste. “Guess that means it’s me an’ you who’ll crack this case, pal. Even-odds it’s not _for-real_ ghosts and never was . . . just Mean Ol’ Man McKinney in a white sheet and rattling some chains.”

 

“Hmmm . . . _pika-ha-ha_!”

 

Harry chuckles, edgy and quiet, then turns a corner that leads past a kitchen that Roger Clifford never uses. And he’s about to pass a bunch of other rooms for which the same can be said . . . all with uniformly spare, intimidating décor. “Well, he _coulda_ got away with it, if it wasn’t for us meddling kids. You an’ me, pardner, are why the bad-guys can’t ever have nice thi—OHJESUS!”

 

Even as he finishes that startled exclamation, Harry’s gasping and clutching his chest—not even mostly for show. Goodmans have a history of touchy, temperamental tickers going back at least ten generations, and Harry, staring down the barrel of forty-six, is entering the right age-range.

 

Meanwhile, Pikachu’s scrambling not to fall off Harry’s shoulder, annoyed little _piiih-KUHs_ escaping in a pattern denoting some salty language, indeed.

 

Harry has taught his best friend well.

 

Watching them from the just beyond the turn that leads first to the penthouse’s sizable library and then to several other rooms Harry’s familiar with, are his and Pikachu’s hosts. They’re both wearing identically amused and weirdly fond gazes.

 

CEO (and newest chairperson and member of about nine zillion different philanthropy boards and groups) Roger Clifford waits less than seven feet away, leaning against the right side of the library entryway. His new—relatively—pokémon partner, a bright-eyed, enthusiastic torchic, is at his side, rather than on his shoulder. For the moment.

 

“Torchic!” the tiny, adorable fire-type exclaims, bouncing in place a few times, before bouncing forward from Roger’s side—they’d both apparently been just waiting here, framed in the double-doored entryway as if posing for a photo-shoot in some bullshit, eighties-style rag . . . _CEO Weekly_ , or something—to latch onto Harry’s right leg for a big, warm . . . almost fiery hug. But she lets go before Harry’s pants-leg bursts into flame. Then, she lifts her little wings up toward Pikachu, offering Harry’s partner a hug, too. Despite Pikachu’s previous demurrals.

 

“Pii. _Kah_.” And with that, Pikachu crosses his arms and settles adamantly on Harry’s shoulder, as usual. Not that that fazes Torchic even a little. The friendly little pokémon simply bounces back to Roger’s side. With an absent smile and the softening of a gaze that doesn’t leave Harry’s face, Roger bends to pick up his partner.

 

“Torchic! TOR-chic!” Torchic trills once she’s settled on Roger’s shoulder and cuddled against the side of his head. After nearly four months of such treatment from the pokémon who’d so unexpectedly chosen him, Roger no longer looks mortified. He doesn’t even flush. Not even a _tiny_ bit.

 

Even in his pique over the lock change-nonsense, Harry’s surprised to have missed that blotchy, splotchy, complexion-ruining color on Roger’s snooty-handsome face.

 

Mortification, it turns out, is but one of some notable things that make Roger Clifford surprisingly bearable for extended periods of time.

 

“Well-well. Good evening, Detective Goodman. And partner.” After a nod for Pikachu, those eyes, a surprisingly mild sort of sky-blue, with hints of dove-gray, meet and hold Harry’s with equal parts trepidation and bravado. “Long time, no see.”

 

Harry catches himself giving the shorter man elevator-eyes—Roger’s dressed casually in a long-sleeved, heather-colored t-shirt; lightweight, gray track-bottoms, and bare, square feet—then forces his admittedly hungry gaze not to linger on Roger’s lean-but-sturdy build. Not on the pleasantly rounded and firm musculature of shoulders and arms. Not on the toned, elegant lines of thighs and calves. And _especially_ not on the gorgeously stark definition of chest and abs hidden entirely by the stupid t-shirt. Definition Harry’s known by taste for the better part of a year. “Yeah. It’s been a real trying and bereft nine hours. Your digital-butler said you were in your office.”

 

Roger’s blond brows lift with subtle, near-disdainful eloquence. “I was. _Then_ I came _here_. I don’t _live_ in offices, you know. Not even my private one,” he scoffs, then grimaces, adding: “Well, I _mostly_ don’t.”

 

“ _Piiiika_ ,” Pikachu says, probably rolling his eyes. Harry’s doing the same.

 

“Yeaaah. Some powerful insights, there. Whyna _hell_ didja change my locks, Roger? And—are you _wooing me_?” he demands, not bothering with _hows_ , since the answer to those is almost always _money_ , where Roger Clifford is concerned.

 

Roger blinks and his face goes unreadable. “Well, what-ever gave you those ideas, detective?”

 

“I’ll ask the questions, here. And don’t even bother denying it, because _no one_ else in Ryme City likes aggravating me enough to go to all that trouble.”

 

“First, I find _that_ premise difficult to accept. Second, it really wasn’t much trouble, at all. And third, which question should I not bother denying: the locks-one or the wooing-one? What’s your poison tonight?”

 

“I—” Harry flushes as he debates the wisdom of leaving the wooing question unanswered. The only thing that seems more nerve-wracking and inadvisable is actually having it answered, so. . . . “The locks. What the hell?”

 

Roger’s amused-aloof smile falls a little, and he looks suddenly hapless—lost, even. Then, he shrugs his free right shoulder with almost rueful solidarity. Solidarity about _what_ , Harry can’t begin to imagine. “Nothing to worry your fuzzy head about. Though, your former landlady, Ms. Matsuda, seemed eager to help you transition to your new living-space when I informed her you’d be moving in with me. She called the locksmith, herself, with little convincing or even asking from me. She, er, also . . . wished you . . . well . . . in her own unique way, one supposes. . . .”

 

“Uh-huh.” No doubt, the celebration the old bat’s going to throw will be catered and have a cash _everything_. “Dig you, with the refreshing honesty, Little Lord Fauntleroy. Not too shabby. How ‘bout you keep the trend going and toss some _why_ on top of that _how_?”

 

Instead of answering immediately—normally, their dynamic is one of mockery, snark, and snappy, near-instantaneous comebacks . . . or necking and humping wherever in Roger’s penthouse or Roger’s CNM&E office (or occasionally and unfortunately for Tim . . . in Harry’s apartment) they happen to be in the moment . . . including moving elevators—Roger gives Harry a most curious look. That not-as-aloof smile eases and warms even more, and he laughs quietly.

 

“It occurs to me—not for the first time—that I don’t know your middle name,” he says, sounding frustrated and accusatory, almost. But, mostly . . . discontented. Those April sky-eyes are still nervously direct, however. Weirdly hopeful, too. “That’s a rather shameful gap in the knowledge of a man who may be trying to woo you. Hmm. I know it starts with the letter B, of course . . . but that hardly narrows it down.”

 

Harry, jolted right out of his anger—and his shock . . . for the moment—shakes his head. “You mean, you _don’t_ have a file on me? Going back through, like, fifteen generations of Goodmans?”

 

Roger gives another half-shrug and his smile falls a little, once more. “Dad did, yes. It’s part of company records, now. I have access to it, but I haven’t . . . I thought it best if I asked you. And if you told me, yourself. In your own time.”

 

“T-Torchic,” Roger’s partner murmurs, leaning her head against his and cuddling his face with what appears to be all her tiny might. Roger’s smile widens and firms back up.

 

“And I, you, my friend,” he says in reply, soft, but unashamed.

 

Shocked even further from the anger that’d carried him cross-city on-foot, Harry frowns. “Seriously? You haven’t looked in that file, or any other files on me? All you know about me is whatever’s been aired on CNM&E, in the papers, or whatever I’ve let slip?”

 

That smile goes crooked and so unusually, but powerfully sultry, that Harry nearly groans. Nearly forgoes the lock-change throw-down they’re slated to have, for recalling the many times Roger’s pinned him to some flat, vertical or horizontal surface, or other, to grind them both to releases that rock them to their bones.

 

Status quo-stuff, basically.

 

Harry _nearly_ does that, but a quietly gritted: “Piii. KAAH!” in his right ear acts as a dash of icy water and recall.

 

 _Sorry, buddy,_ Harry thinks apologetically at his partner. _You_ do not _need a psyche full of my bad-touch feelings for Roger Clifford, on top of everything else._

 

“I’d say that’s a largely accurate conclusion. Though, I know a _few_ things about you that I’ve not been told . . . but which I’ve been fortunate enough to . . . glean from our recent interactions,” Roger practically purrs.

 

“Interactions, huh?” Harry drawls right back. “Is that what you CEO-types are calling it, these days? I mostly just think of it as us rubbing-off whenever circumstance permits, like desperate virgins. Complete with fingers, tongues, and dicks in places where the sun isn’t known for shining.”

 

If he’d expected Roger to flush or be mortified—as he seems or seemed to have been until very recently, when it came to displays of affection or attraction, and references to them—Harry is surely disappointed. At least, he is somewhere under his growing-burning arousal and inability to stay focused on regaining access to his apartment before Tim straggles home with his _no-doubt-working key_.

 

Of which, Harry could then make as many copies as he wants.

 

Were it not for the principle of the thing, of course. _That’s_ what’s important. Principles. Not that sneaky-sexy smirk that makes Harry wants to kiss, lick, suck, and bite those pouty, pale-pink lips until Roger’s bucking and pseudo-fucking against him near-violently, like an uber-predator in heat.

 

 _Not even_ getting off—hard, fast, and frequently, something they’re both _extremely_ talented at it when it comes to each other.

 

None of that matters at all, and neither does the way that smirk on Roger’s face _now_ , clearly wants to be that hapless-hopeful smile. Nor the way those April sky-eyes seem gorilla-glued to Harry’s face—sometimes his mouth, but mostly his eyes—nor the way jerky-confident-sarcastic . . . increasingly _sincere_ Roger Clifford is drifting hesitantly, uncertainly toward Harry, until he’s gazing up into Harry’s eyes with near-trembling anticipation. Until Harry can smell Roger’s cologne: some warm, subtle fragrance like aged scotch, heated sandalwood, and hints of vanilla and citrus.

 

“What, uh,” Harry begins, breathless and dizzy from Roger’s scent so close, as is also increasingly usual. His mouth has gone suddenly dry. Then he blinks and clears his throat harshly, and asks the first non-sexual thing that pops into his flustered brain. “I mean . . . what’re you, like, five-eight? Five-nine? Always had you figured for, uh, taller, from your press photos. Closer to six-even.”

 

That easy-warm smile makes a comeback as an easy-warm _beam_. One that’s also relieved.

 

And, maybe . . . just a _bit_ adoring.

 

“I’m five feet, and ten and one-quarter inches, please and thank you, detective,” Roger says, some of his haughtiness making a comeback, too. One that’s easily eclipsed by that bright, strangely vulnerable beam. Harry blushes, for some reason, then says:

 

“Harry.”

 

Then he blushes even harder when Roger simply stares at him with wide, pleased eyes. In fact, Harry blushes, hard enough, that Pikachu murmurs: “ _Ooooh_. Pika . . . pika-pika. . . .” and pokes, then pats his flushed right cheek soothingly.

 

“Not that I _minded_ calling you ‘detective’ while you shoved me against load-bearing structural elements and sucked my higher brain-functions out through my cock,” Roger admits, finally blushing, himself, and chuckling as he bites his bottom lip. “But I think reciprocating first names is a more personal touch. And personal touches are . . . something I’d like to try-out with you. All part of the wooing-process, don’t you know?”

 

Staring down into Roger’s eyes, Harry only half-notices when Pikachu sighs, and hops off him. He only quarter-notices when Roger’s torchic—after a trilled, impatient, and growing-distant: _Pikaaaaa!_ —follows suit.

 

But Harry one hundred and ten thousand- _million_ percent notices when Roger reaches up to minutely adjust the given-up, nonexistent collar of the green V-neck that’d been old when Harry’d made detective second-grade. The semi-accidental brush of soft, cool fingertips makes Harry shiver, and that shiver makes Roger meet his gaze again. That gentle-pale shade of April sky is hotter than a Death Valley-July and Roger’s sure-precise hands settle pointedly on Harry’s hips. Then around his waist to almost-rest on Harry’s ass.

 

Harry’s pretty sure he’s never been so turned-on for so small a reason in his entire life.

 

“Bedivere,” he chokes out, and the same time Roger commands: “Kiss me, Harry.”

 

And Harry’s happily, relievedly doing just that, with more ardor than finesse, when Roger exclaims: “Wait— _Bedivere? What_?”

 

“Huh?” Harry pants as Roger pulls back just enough to blink up at him, puzzled and doubtful. Licking the tastes of sharp-bright spearmint and the dark-strong highlights of sweetened black tea (Roger’s favorite beverage) from his own lips, he fights the urge to dive right back into _Frenchin’ - Take #8,000: The Search for Roger Clifford’s Tonsils_. “What’s wrong?”

 

“What in the bloody hell is _Bedivere_?” Roger demands, half-laughing and half-suspicious, as if he thinks he’s being pranked. “Is that your zany idea of a safe-word, detective?”

 

“What? _No_. My safe- _phrase_ is _pork ‘n’ beans_. _Bedivere_ is . . . that’s my . . . middle, um . . . _and_ it’s the name of King Arthur’s most badass-est knight, too. So, verily, knave: put some respect on it.” Harry clears his throat again and avoids Roger’s shining, once more amused gaze. Then he swears and leans in for another kiss-about-to-be-upright-humping. But Roger shoves him back again, this time smiling in a slightly awed and distinctly affectionate way.

 

“What if I want the ‘B’ to stand for . . . ‘babe’? Or possibly ‘baby’?”

 

Harry’s brows shoot up. “What? Like, when we’re hot and heavy?”

 

Roger colors again, and deeply, but doesn’t look away. “Yes. But at . . . other times, as well.”

 

“Uh.” Mariah hadn’t called him ‘baby.’ She’d been more of a ‘sugar,’ or ‘honey’ sort of pet-namer. And who even knew _Roger Clifford_ would be a pet-namer, at all? And . . . _why_ would Roger Clifford be a pet-namer of Harry B. Goodman? “Wait—what is this, _really_ , Roger? This—the getting-off together, the . . . pet-names and middle names . . . changing the locks on my apartment without permission or explanation? Why this . . . _wooing_ -thing, all-of-a-sudden. . . ?”

 

Roger bounces up on his toes to mitigate the three-ish inches of height difference between them. He busses Harry’s bottom lip, feather-lite and chaste . . . at least until his teeth anchor in it tantalizingly and tortuously, followed by lascivious licks as he presses his body against Harry’s. All of him’s hard in _all_ the right places.

 

“Not _so_ sudden, you oblivious, lumbering dunce. And it’s about . . . what I hope we _both_ want.” Roger makes a soft, frustrated, scared sound as he settles on heel and toe, again, the determined purchase his teeth had gained in Harry’s lips still tingling . . . even with repeated passes of _Harry’s_ tongue to calm that response. “ _I_ , at least, want more than the getting off, splendid as that’s been. I _want_ pet-names and middle names. Kisses and conversations. Your things strewn all about this mausoleum of a flat. I want someone I can trust enough to let my guard down with, and already do. Someone who _wants_ to stay the night and . . . isn’t afraid to give that a trial-run. Then keep it up, if that works out the way I hope it will. I _want_ —” he pauses for a self-deprecating laugh and at last, his brass runs out and that April sky-gaze drifts off to the side. Over Harry’s shoulder. Down to Harry’s prominent collarbone. “I only changed the locks to your flat because I wanted to increase the likelihood, that you’d accept the _keys_ to _mine_. After all . . . the penthouse of _The Cliffside_ is some of the most sought-after real-estate in the whole world!”

 

“Uh . . . _yeah_ , it is. So, do you really wanna bring down property values any more than you already have, by having me shack up with you?” Harry asks. His entire face feels numb, but for his eyes, which seem to throb and strobe in their sockets. “You, ah . . . you sayin’ you think gettin’ in my pants’ll be that damn transcendent?”

 

“Yes. Among other things.” Roger’s voice goes husky and ridiculously sexy, and there’s a brief flash of those eyes, heated and hungry, before he looks down again. “Listen, we’ve . . . never really shared a bed. Or a full meal. Or even a meandering, getting-to-know-you conversation dotted with sporadic, comfortable silences. And yet . . . _whatever this is between us_ . . . it feels _real_. And promising and exciting and . . . like the best, most _utterly stupid_ thing I’ve ever done and the most wonderful surprise I’ve had in a very, _very_ long time. And I’ve been fighting my _every_ instinct to build a tower around you and the way you make me feel, so that you’ll stay. So that you’ll always be safe with me, and . . . never leave. I’ve been fighting _forever_ , it feels like. Today, I . . . suppose I finally lost.”

 

Harry blinks some more. Then, he opens his mouth as if to respond, but all that comes out is a fast, harsh exhalation that’s practically a cough.

 

It’s only when Roger’s hands slide off the curve of Harry’s ass—and his arms fall away from Harry’s waist—half-heartedly, but definitely, that Harry finds his voice.

 

“ _Lost_ isn’t the word I’d have chosen,” he says, a little rough and a lot hoarse. He takes Roger’s hands, squeezes them, then pulls them back around his waist. Once they seem prepared to stay a spell, Harry drapes his arms over Roger’s shoulders and shrugs when Roger merely stares at him, frowning and brow-furrowing. “Say, what’s your favorite word?”

 

Roger’s mouth works soundlessly for a few seconds. Then, he sighs and huffs out, all snotty: “ _Prestidigitation_.”

 

Harry grins. “Gingivitis. Do you ever hate your job?”

 

“Most days . . . yes. You?” Roger breathes, smiling slow and relieved. Harry’s arms tighten around him.

 

“Most days . . . no. At least, not anymore. You like kissing pretty girls, too? As well as, uh, grizzled, geeky, middle-aged smart-asses?”

 

Roger tightens his arms up around Harry’s waist and urges him closer. Close enough that they’re flush. Harry’s more than half-hard and going crazy from the friction of his jeans and Roger’s abdomen. Roger’s all-the-way hard, and hot on Harry’s thigh. “Hmm, no. Pretty girls have never done it for me. Neither did, er, grizzled, geeky, middle-aged smart-arses, until recently. I . . . take it your mileage varies?”

 

“Actually, this, uh . . . what’s between us _is_ my mileage varying. For the first time. Ever.” Harry sighs and shakes his head. “I dunno what I’m doing, anymore. What _we’re_ doing. Just that you make me crazier than anyone I’ve ever known, and most of the time, I can’t tell whether I wanna fight you or fuck you or let you fuck me, or some unnerving combination of those. But I do know that . . . I _want_ those things. And I want them with you. And to maybe cuddle, afterwards.”

 

“You’re a cuddler?” Roger asks, smirk-smiling. Harry glares.

 

“I never said I was a cuddler, I said I _might_ like to do it. Might,” Harry temporizes.

 

“You _are_ a cuddler, detective!”

 

“You can either stop putting rude, lying lie-words in my mouth or stop putting your dick in my mouth. Choose now, and live with that choice, ever-after, pal.”

 

“Well . . . talk about no contest.” Roger’s smile brightens and widens—is almost a grin—then dims and wanes. “In all seriousness, Harry . . . you should know that . . . I don’t fall in love _easily_. Or ever. But I do, apparently, fall suddenly and deeply. I . . . _have fallen_. Suddenly. And deeply.”

 

And, boy, does _that_ hit like a punch in the junk. “I . . . um, yeah. S-same here—guilty, as charged, ha-ha,” Harry stammer-confesses with a nervous chuckle. “Um. So. Ya _really-really_ wanna trust me not just with a set of keys to this spooky-stylish crypt, but taking up residence here?”

 

Roger snorts, but nods solemnly. “So to speak. Full biometric access at any and all times, to all penthouse-related systems. Lock and override codes, the ability to set protocols for the house AI, _et cetera_.” He shrugs jerkily, glancing away. But then he looks right back and holds Harry closer and tighter, still. “As I said: this is sudden, but . . . it’s also deep. And I’ve no interest in surfacing from it.”

 

“I . . . wow.” Harry swallows, feeling as if he’s at a precipice-edge and about to fall into a chasm that’s never-ending—that might be all the doom he’s ever feared . . . or all the salvation he’s ever craved.

 

He’s only ever felt that way twice before: The first had been looking into Mariah’s endless-dark eyes on their wedding day—their Justice of the Peace all-but forgotten for the knowledge that here was Harrison B. Goodman’s first and likely only sure-thing, and he was lucky enough to be able to put a ring on it.

 

Second, had been looking into Tim’s innocent-dark eyes—Mariah’s beautiful eyes—mere minutes after his birth, and knowing that he’d gained a _second_ absolutely everything. That he now had two people he’d lay down his life for, if called.

 

He’d finally had a family, for the first time in his life. . . .

 

Both of those chasms Harry B. Goodman had thrown himself into without reserve and with abandon. And he’d never, even after heartache and heartbreak, regretted those decisions. Not even for a moment and not ever.

 

Now, standing at the edge of a third and utterly unexpected precipice, as misty and obscured by dreamy, April sky-blue as any crystal ball, he hesitates to take that leap of faith. Sure, it’d worked out, more or less, the previous two times—the first leap had resulted in eleven years with the love of his life and their son, until she’d been lost to him.

 

The second leap had been _that son_. The son Harry had also lost . . . no, _given away,_ in the depths of a grief that’d seemed to be swallowing him whole. Given away and given-up for gone, for an entire decade of pain and loneliness and regret.

 

But then, he’d _regained_ that son, under the most miraculous and impossible set of circumstances.

 

And, now. . . .

 

“As the grand ones go, Mr. Clifford, _this_ is kind of a _canyon_ of a gesture,” Harry tells Roger, who smirks.

 

“True enough, but . . . how’s that charming saying go? _Go big, or go home_?”

 

“Well. You’ve got _big_ pretty well covered, as my constantly sore jaw can attest. And, ah, we’re . . . already _home_ , I guess. I mean, y’know. For a _trial-run_. So. . . .” Harry blushes and smiles. He’s never felt quite so stupid, clumsy, and goon-ish . . . not even while asking his high school crush to prom.

 

A single, deliberate step may not be quite as dramatic and declarative as the proverbial leap, but . . . Harry knows he’s set a course for the unknown, nonetheless. For now, it’ll have to do.

 

And he has faith, oddly enough, that his luck-in-love will hold. At least if he keeps in mind what he’s learned from his previous leaps.

 

Roger’s gazing at him, intent and intense, not smiling, but still, somehow, _beaming_. Brilliant. True.

 

Not to mention hot, and hard as an invisible brick wall on Harry’s left thigh.

 

“I am going to take you to bed, Harry Goodman. To _our_ bed. Our trial-run bed,” he whispers, as somber as that gaze. As the tone for his next set of wants, despite the subtle, scorching heat of them. Of his dawn-in-spring eyes. “We’re going to Christen that bed with your legs over my shoulders. Every cry that’s torn from your throat will be in the form of _my_ name. I’m going to claim you with every bit of me, and . . . I would be . . . ecstatic if you were to reciprocate. Harry, _I want_ —”

 

“Jesus Christ, Roger, if you're gonna take me to bed and _screw my brains out, do it, already_!” Harry interrupts his non-boyfriend-type-person to blurt out, exasperated and embarrassed and _anxious_ and . . . dragging Roger further down the hall by both hands. Towards the master bedroom Harry’s never seen—though not for lack of Roger’s trying.

 

In fact, the man in question, instead of looking smug at finally getting his way, simply looks cautiously elated and endearingly bemused. Harry ignores the strangely gooey warmth trying to congeal in his chest. For the moment, anyway. “Seriously, enough talk. Ya had me at standing in the damn doorway looking like sex-on-legs, y’know.”

 

“Crossfit,” Roger replies, almost-smirking. But it seems more habit than anything. “Er, turn right at this next intersection, and second door to the left,” he adds, when Harry frowns at the upcoming intersection.

 

“Thanks. Thanks for the five cent-tour of your vast, echoing mausoleum-slash-bachelor pad.” Harry rolls his eyes but moves them along markedly faster.

 

But once at that second door to the left, Roger takes the reins again, pinning Harry to the wall besides the slightly ajar door and practically kissing the lips off him.

 

“Th-Thah was . . . nice,” Harry mumbles when he’s reluctantly released. He’s pleasantly dazed, and licks tingling-throbbing lips. When he at last manages to winch his eyes open, Roger’s definitely smirking again, and also licking his lips—like a hungry tiger. It’s an insanely compelling, stiffener of a look that Harry only just realizes he has no natural defenses against. And no desire to defend against it. “Didn’t have to lock me outta my own place to get me here, y’know.”

 

“Didn’t I?” Roger leans in to steal another kiss, slow and tender.

 

“Coulda tried asking. When the time seemed right, I mean.” It’s Harry’s turn to smirk and be smug. “I’da definitely given you a firm ‘maybe.’”

 

Roger snorts again, then sighs rather self-mockingly. “I suppose anything’s possible. But I was rather tired of stifling myself and my instincts—of taking it slow. I've _never_ feared taking a worthwhile risk in my life, before . . . you.”

 

“Yeah, well . . . I’ve never been much of a risk-taker, myself. In fact, _this and you_ are my last big leap for a while. Only the third I’ve ever made that felt . . . _fateful_.” Harry bites his bottom _and_ top lip nervously. “The trial-run’s success is gonna have to be _miles_ in the rear-view before I start hanging my hat here permanently, Roger. Let alone my other clothes and belongings,” he warns, trying to keep them both somewhat grounded and wary. Cautious.

 

But Roger only smiles, and steps back, taking Harry’s hands. With unspoken questions written all over his face, Harry lets himself be tugged into Roger’s . . . into _their_ bedroom—

 

—and stalls in the doorway like he’d tried to bad-cop some answers out of a Mister Mime and had his face rearranged by a make-believe wall.

 

“Well?” Roger says defensively, after the awkward silence has dragged out for six millennia longer than mere genteel shock would allow. He clears his throat and pulls Harry closer. Into his— _into their bedroom_. Pulls Harry _into his arms_ , while Harry gapes at some very familiar movie posters, a crate with no-longer-dusty vinyl records, and various old, framed photos of Mariah, Tim, himself, and all three of them together. Not to mention much newer photos of Tim, Lucy, and Harry, and their collection of pokémon partners.

 

And also . . . no few _empty_ frames, clearly waiting to be filled with future captured memories.

 

Most of Harry’s bedroom and many things from the rest of Harry’s old apartment have been spread around the penthouse master bedroom as if they’ve _always_ been there.

 

“There was hardly any sense in making this your new home without the best comforts of your old home to make the transitional-phase easier, was there?” Roger huffs, crisply haughty and still— _still_ —ridiculously endearing, somehow.

 

The man is clearly a dangerous lunatic, and yet . . . Harry wants nothing more than to tackle Roger with hugs. Then smother Roger with kisses.

 

Then . . . spend the rest of the night testing the limits of Roger’s gag-reflex.

 

“You have a daunting number of psychological issues, and are also creepy and completely tone-deaf,” Harry clarifies nonetheless, staring at his favorite red flannel pillowcases, now on the pillows gracing Roger’s silvery, silk sheets and fancy, chrome-colored bedspread. “And your weird melding of our very opposing tastes in décor is also _hideous as fuck_. I’m not exaggerating when I say: I’m shaken by each and every detail of . . . _this_.”

 

Harry gestures at his half-transplanted bedroom, plopped-down dab-smack in Roger’s bedroom.

 

Rather, in _their bedroom_.

 

“Then come to bed, detective, and let me take care of those nerves, for you,” Roger murmurs, smirking-smirking-smirking.

 

Letting himself be tugged onward, once more, Harry shakes his head. But he’s fighting a huge smile. Or maybe even a substantial grin. “Just don’t turn my skin into a lampshade . . . or my bones into holiday jewelry.”

 

“Well. Certainly not before the trial-run is over, at any rate.” Roger chuckles, shifting their positions suddenly and shoving Harry down to the bed with strength and ease that are no longer surprising. By the time the jarring spin of reality slows, Harry’s blinking up at a Roger who’s removing his t-shirt to show off all that Crossfit dedication. The tracksuit bottoms do nothing to hide the rager all-but poking a hole through said bottoms. Hell, the wet-spot is spreading while Harry stares and drools. “Unless _that’s_ the best way to shut you up.”

 

“There’re a couple better ones, actually. Wanna . . . try some of ’em out now? And maybe find a few more?” Harry manages a sultry smile, despite lingering vertigo, then attempts a sexy-sprawl—one that shows off the goods . . . such as they are . . . obscured by roomy, warm layers—as he crooks a come-hither finger.

 

And Harry’s . . .  _non_ -non-boyfriend grins—tiger-bright—shucks the damn tracksuit bottoms, and _pounces_.

 

 

END

**Author's Note:**

>  **End notes: [PROMPT]** _Your character(s) wake up one morning and their entire house has been moved somewhere else._  
>   
>   
>  I took some liberties :-O  
>   
>   
>   
>  **Thanks :**  
>   
> To the WONDEROUS [MosaicCreme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MosaicCreme) for the prompt and the encouragement to write this cutesy abomination. And thanks to anyone giving this a read (and hopefully a comment and/or kudo :-).  
>   
>   
>   
>  **Resources & References for this fic:**  
>   
>   
> [Pokémon Wiki](https://Pok%C3%A9mon.fandom.com/wiki/Pok%C3%A9mon_Wiki)  
>   
> [She Keeps Me Warm lyrics](https://genius.com/Mary-lambert-she-keeps-me-warm-lyrics) on Geniuslyrics.com  
>   
> Sleeping With Sirens: “[James Dean & Audrey Hepburn (Acoustic version)” [4:16]](https://youtu.be/71SvPulAyZI), and the rest of the album, [If You Were a Movie, This Would Be Your Soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=OLAK5uy_m6sDA0snTdL_1j4It3i8ofJTciPAs7FpM) [5 songs]  
>   
>   
>   
>  **Powered by :**  
>   
>   
> Sleeping With Sirens: [If You Were a Movie, This Would Be Your Soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=OLAK5uy_m6sDA0snTdL_1j4It3i8ofJTciPAs7FpM) [5 songs]  
>   
>   
>   
>   
> [TUMBLES with the bug](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)! And [PILLOWFORTS with the bug, too](https://www.pillowfort.io/beetle-comma-the)!


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